


Bury Me in Phoenix

by Harbinger



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Drug Abuse, Drug Use, F/M, Hallucinations, Major character death - Freeform, Paranoia, Post-Series, Self-Harm, Sexual Content, Stream of Consciousness, Suicide, a stupid amount of references because the author likes them, affects of prolonged drug abuse, liberal swearing, mentions of previous character deaths, not a happy fic, prostitution for drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 09:28:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harbinger/pseuds/Harbinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His hands shake as he preps the H but somehow he feels lissome digits steadying his tremulous fingers. A soft voice ghosts in his ear.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Don’t worry, baby. I’ll help you.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Bury Me in Phoenix

**Author's Note:**

> I picked up a Jesse Pinkman muse on tumblr and wound up with some of the most amazing partners in my entire role play career. Taylor, this is for you <3 
> 
> You can find me on my role play account at gonnabreakbad.tumblr.com where you'll find various role playing, comments on episodes, sad meta at 3 am, and where questions on the series are always welcome! As are requests, for that matter.
> 
>  **I don't own BrBa**.

He gets to Alaska and realizes that there is nothing for him there. It doesn’t quite stop him from finding a small cabin and renting it from the owner. Jesse spends more nights than he remembers curled up in the far corner where the wind can’t quite reach him, shaking and trembling, sick from freedom and hating himself for longing for the pit.

He hasn’t used in months but the shakes persist and there are days when it is _all_ he can do not to find a dealer of anything. He walks the chilled streets of the petite village and his eyes, so used to the sight of money and drugs exchanging hands, see it everywhere. Jesse feels sick with himself the first time he caves – black tar has never been _his_ thing but it had been Jane’s and damnit he’d give anything to be closer to her.

His hands shake as he preps the H but somehow he feels lissome digits steadying his tremulous fingers. A soft voice ghosts in his ear.

_Don’t worry, baby. I’ll help you._

\--

There are ghosts in the attic of the small cabin. He can hear them rattling and shrieking and wailing out their misery and it grates at him until he howls at the ceiling for them to _shut up shut up shut up shutupshutupshutupshupshup_

until the words are running together and his voice is cracking and he needs a fix more than anything. The gentle touch of the only phantasm that doesn’t make him want to tear out his heart (but also does at the same time, she was _good_ at that) helps him to raise a vein and he sinks into the abyss of a stoner’s sleep.

The tears dry on his face and leave crimson track marks like the tracks on his arms and Jesse doesn’t fucking _care_ anymore.

 _Fucking junkie_ , Heisenberg sneers, watching from near the stove. Jesse sleepily flips him the bird, rolls onto his side, and he’s gone, gone, gone.

\--

He dreams of yellow sheets and ebony hair and midnight dark eyes with twin stars watching him. Of slender fingers, artist’s fingers, caressing his skin until he’s swollen and begging and she’d always had him in the palm of her hand. Jesse would have done anything for her and in these dreams he does. He submits, sinking into her at her words, giving her what she desires, taking nothing for himself. She disallows even the faintest thought of it.

He finds himself waking rock-hard in ill-fitting pants and jerks off in his hand, her name ripping from his throat in cries torn between pleasure and pain.

\--

She’s not fucking real and he fucking knows that but if she isn’t, then Heisenberg and Mr. White and Walt (yeah, all three of ‘em, sick fucks) cannot be real either. There are days when he roars himself hoarse at their specters, telling them to fuck off and leave him alone and to rot in hell and though the drug kingpin gets pissed, the teacher smiles indulgently, and the man just sighs, Jane watches him with liquid pools that show her disappointment.

He thinks of the old Slipknot song, one of their softer ones he’d only fuckin’ tolerated cause Badge had loved it and snarl-sings the words out in a horrific rasp. Jesse’d never been a good singer to start with but the warped growl to his words tinges it to terror.

“She isn’t _real_ ,” he snarls at the semblance of Jane and in a wild moment throws a glass through her; it shatters against the wall. “I can’t make her real.”

\--

 _Bury me in Phoenix_.

\--

The smack dries up, DEA dickbags all too familiar of Hank Schrader cutting out supplies and Jesse spends three weeks sweating cold sweats in the corner of his cabin while the ghosts in the attic continue to scream. He weeps into his hands and screams into his elbows and chews at the heels of his hands until they drip blood down his wrists.

He thinks for a little while, a few hours, that his house is being surrounded and spends those few hours violently tearing up a section of the floor and digging down into the soil beneath. He gets about three feet dug up before the paranoia passes and, covered in filth, Jesse curls up against the wall and just screams until his voice gives out.

Jane watches, never speaking now – she hasn’t spoken to him in weeks.

\--

Jesse doesn’t fucking want uppers so when his meth – _his fucking meth, he knows his goddamn blue!_ – shows up in town he spends four hours screaming into a mirror until something in his throat tears. He doesn’t want uppers so he prowls the streets looking for _anything_ that will get rid of this all-encompassing desire to simply throw himself into a lake.

He finds Xanax and alcohol and buys as much of both as he can. He’s running low on cash, what the Camino had in it, but he doesn’t care too much. When he’s on the X and the alcohol, he lies in a stupor of his own fuckin’ filth and doesn’t give a shit because there’s no one (but ghosts) here to see him anymore.

\--

 _‘Til death do us unite_.

\--

He talks to her at times, when hazed on the X, slurring through the articulations that sometimes make coherent sense but often don’t. Jesse tells her that he misses her and that he took her fuckin’ last name because the name _Pinkman_ is like a lash to the soul now and he flinches even to hear his own tongue form it.

“Do y’like the scars, baby?” he slurs in a question, feet on the wall, staring up at a mark on the ceiling that looks like her fuckin’ face.

 _You know I do, Jesse. They make you look rugged_.

He smiles. It’s enough. It simply has to be. Anything less and he’ll be so, so, so _fucked_.

\--

Seven months, three weeks, two days, five hours, and some odd minutes of freedom and he caves; a baggie of blue bought for a price he damn near couldn’t pay. The hickey on the side of his neck feels like the brand on his hip but the bitch had been a good lay and damnit he needed his blue.

_His fuckin’ blue._

Jesse Pinkman’s blue, _bitch_.

Mr. White observes in silence as he laughingly cuts the crystal and sucks it up into nasal passages always abused; he never liked smoking it and _fuck_ injecting it, Jesse liked his goddamn teeth, thanks. He can feel Jane’s furious eyes on the side of his neck but flips her ghoul the bird as well.

“Ain’t like you’re actually fuckin’ here to do anything ‘bout it,” he slurs out and that night cleans the entire cabin top to bottom.

\--

Jesse pretends the next day that he doesn’t notice that a pile of logs has been knocked over.

\--

While on the blue, he works. Handy with a knife (in more ways than one, as the marks on his wrist prove), he carves driftwood and pieces of fir and pine until he can sell them and _this_ is good money, this is money he can use to buy his blue.

His blue. He has to buy his damn blue. How fuckin’ ironic. “I’m a goddamn customer now, bitch,” he snarls at Heisenberg, baring his enamels like a cornered dog. But he’s not a cornered dog, instead a chained one, chained to the drugs, chained to the cabin, chained to the walls, chained to the ghost in the attic, the ghosts at his side. Phantasmal fingers slide through his hair and he whines aloud, the single movement enough to spawn out heat in his thighs and he gives in.

Jesse’s had enough practice with his hand to not need a dance partner, _yo_.

\--

Jane disappears for three weeks and he panics. He spends hours wandering the snowy landscape until he’s sick and coughing and shaking with the flu and curling up next to the stove fully lit. He makes himself stew under Mr. White’s gentle guidance and manages to kill a rabbit while Heisenberg watches him, dispassionate and heartless as ever.

In a wild moment, higher than a fuckin’ kite on his blue ( _his fuckin’ blue_ ), Jesse gets the brilliant idea to try to slice the brand off. But he’s never had a tolerance to pain and even the needle in his arm made him hurt so he gives up on that fast, sobbing in a tiny ball.

He feels her fingers in his hair and wails ever the louder, pleading incoherently and without true vocalizations for someone, anyone, to help him.

\--

He bleeds to remind himself he’s alive. It doesn’t always work.

\--

Jesse no longer has to pay in sex for methamphetamine but he does so anyway. If it’s to spite Jane, he never lets himself think that but the dealer he fucks – a pretty little bitch with green eyes and hair that’s seen better days – tells him he moans Jane or Andrea or sometimes Skyler or half a dozen other names of sometimes meaningful, sometimes meaningless, sometimes fantastical fucks he’s had over his not-too-many and yet far-too-many years.

He doesn’t fucking care; Jesse doesn’t need to get off to feel good, the high does that for him. Sooner or later, the dealers will run out of blue but they don’t know it’s Jesse Pinkman ( _bitch!_ ) that they have within their clutches (sometimes literally). He’ll never let them find out. Jesse’ll die before he goes back to being slave to anyone.

Heisenberg laughs. _Boy, you’ve been a slave since you met me._

\--

 _Bury me in Phoenix_.

\--

A year, three months, two weeks, three days, four hours, and some minutes since he’d escaped and the boy formerly known as Jesse Pinkman is an unrecognizable shell of a man, a leftover husk used up and fucked out by drugs, a psychopathic partner, Neo-goddamn-Nazis, and too many ghosts of a past that will simply not leave him alone. He’s weak, he’s always been weak, and there are too many cracks in his soul that no one around could heal.

Jesse has become desperate. A desperate Jesse has always solidified into a deadly Jesse, a Jesse willing to do whatever it takes. His craving for the black tar is assisted by Jane’s steady presence but she’s fading. He’s fading too, fading and fading and Mr. White is fading and Walt has been gone but Heisenberg remains, a laughing, mocking, sneering ghoul of a monster who watches him sleep on tattered sheets and sob into a broken mattress.

Jesse chases the ghost of Jane, buying whatever he can get his hands on and using what he has to get it. He needs her, craves her, cannot quit her, because _god fucking damnit she’s all I have left!_

\--

He starts dancing with the lady in white and oh, what a dance it is.

\--

He’s never touched coke before but it’s a goddamn _gift_ , fuck meth, fuck H, fuck all of that. Jesse dreams in Technicolor and sings at the top of his voice in the night, howling like the wolves he sometimes hears. It has him crawling up the walls and carving things at a speed he’s never managed before; sleep becomes a thing of the past but Jane leaves him.

_I don’t do coke, babe. You know where to find me, when you need me._

It makes him all the worse and in his rage he screams at the full moon, blood dripping down his tattooed wrist and Heisenberg watching in mute, calm amusement from the door of the cabin, smiling that mocking smile.

\--

_Bury me in Phoenix._

\--

A plan formulates and he knows he is a coward but he must be a coward. He cannot do this anymore. He tokes a line of meth to get himself going and then finds a trucker willing to take him down through the backroads of Canada. Getting into the good ole’ U S of A is as complicated as Jesse hiding amongst the cargo and then he’s back in the lower 48. The fat old fuck ain’t going to where he needs to go but it don’t matter.

He bribes with crystals of blue, which has vanished down here, with his tongue between moist thighs of women – but Jesse isn’t so desperate to let any man do anything to him. He looks for the loner women, the butch ones that remind him of Jane and don’t remind him of Jane and he pays them whatever they want so long as they’ll take him over a state line. It gets him to Arizona and then he’s there in Phoenix.

\--

 _Bury me in Phoenix_.

\--

The drug underworld amuses him greatly because nothin’ has fuckin’ changed. Got the cash? Get your dope. It takes him no time at all to locate enough smack for his plans. The hardest part comes next. He’s not ballsy enough to track down her father but a few clicks reveals that the man died after a suicide attempt. It makes Jesse laugh, irony or something; he doesn’t intend to _fail_.

He begs a piece of paper in a bar and scribbles his note on it. Cause that’s what people did, he knew. They left notes. His note is fuckin’ simple as shit.

_My name is Jesse Pinkman. I was the collaborator to Walter White, a.k.a Heisenberg._

_Bury me in Phoenix. If you do nothing else for me, bury me next to Jane Margolis._

_Bury me in Phoenix_.

\--

Her grave has yellow roses over it and Jesse smiles as he remembers how Jane fuckin’ hated roses, pretentious goddamn flowers she’d always called them but it doesn’t matter. With the last of his money, he buys her the biggest fuckin’ bouquet of flowers in a rainbow of hues and arranges them around her stone with a stupidly happy grin on his stupid face.

Jesse curls himself up against the back of the stone, swiftly preps himself a needle. Just a few minutes later, his head is drooping back against the hard marble, deliberately placed such that _when_ he vomits, he will _choke_ on it.

“Comin’, baby,” he whispers, mouth a smile, eyes closed and turned to the warm Phoenix sun.

\--

 _Bury me in Phoenix_.


End file.
